At What Price?
by Badr
Summary: T for werewolfish violence. From Remus Lupin's POV, a few months after OotP. Remus is asked to be the Order's spy among Voldemort's ranks. AU and on hiatus for the moment.
1. A Summons

Disclaimer: Just tinkering with J.K. Rowling's characters. I promise I'll put them back as soon as I'm done.

A/N: We'll see where this goes; I'm not entirely sure yet. I got an impulse to write and this is the result...

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**_Chapter One: A Summons_**

Remus Lupin walked down the street toward his London apartment, enjoying the light curtain of snow that was falling, softening the sharpness of the suburban slums and changing the light to a delicate silver-white. As he reached the door, Ella, the young woman who lived directly below him, swept out. He caught the door and held it for her with a nod, transferring his grocery bag from his right hand to his left. Ella gave a small smile of gratitude. Once she had stepped out of the way, Remus walked inside, closing the slightly crooked door as firmly as possible; however, a draft still managed to curl in between the mismatched door and its frame. He made for the stairway.

Down the hall to the left, he saw Mrs. Browning, the owner of the apartment, rapping furiously on room 102's door. "Mr. Chouchounova!" she shrieked. "I know you can hear me! Open the door this instant!" Remus quickened his pace, slumping down and shifting his grocery bag so that it shielded the left side of his head from view. The pounding stopped and he heard the owner turn, apparently exasperated. There was a pause, a surge of recognition, and—

"Remus!"

Remus grimaced and halted, slowly lowering his bag to see Mrs. Browning scurrying toward him. He hitched a smile onto his face. "Mrs. Browning, how are—?"

"Remus, I hate to be a bother," the woman cut across him, reaching his side. "But I do have to ask when you'll be paying your rent? It was due two days ago, you know."

Remus sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Two days ago?" he echoed. "Mrs. Browning, I'm sorry, I completely forgot…"

The landlady brushed her mousy brown hair from her eyes and adjusted her glasses, which had been thrown askew in her attempts to force Vladimir Chouchounova to open his door. "Well, time flies, of course. You must pay me soon though, Remus, or I'll have to throw you out. This isn't the first time your rent has been late."

"Yes, I realize, and I'm very sorry." He sighed again, glancing toward room 102, which had been opened a crack, allowing its occupant to peek out at them. When his eyes met the other man's the door was hastily shut. "Have any luck with Mr. Chouchounova?"

Mrs. Browning shrugged helplessly. "He still won't open his door, and he owes me four months' worth of rent. Of course, he only speaks Russian, so I suppose I can't blame him until I find someone who can translate." She looked back at Remus. "Anyway, make sure you get your money to me by midnight tonight. I like you, Remus dear, really, you're a much better tenant than all those parents with their screaming, bratty children—Oh, hello, Mrs. Carter," she greeted the woman who lived in the room next to Remus. Mrs. Carter glared at her, obviously having heard the owner's comment, and disappeared out the door with her crying son.

"I will, don't worry," Remus assured the landlady with more conviction than he felt. "But I really need to go upstairs and put this away." He gestured toward his grocery bag.

"Of course, of course," Mrs. Browning replied. "Go right ahead." She turned and spotted Vladimir Chouchounova's door, which hadn't been slammed shut quite quickly enough. She ran toward the room, shrieking once more.

Remus shook his head and ascended the four flights of stairs to his room, 507, wondering where he would come up with the money to pay his rent. He was in his almost perpetual state: between jobs. He entered his sparsely furnished apartment and flicked on the harsh ceiling light that was in the center of his living room, which doubled as his bedroom, blinking a few times before his eyes became adjusted. When he could see again—it took a few minutes because his eyes were better suited for darkness—he walked into the small connecting kitchen and placed his groceries on the tiny, two person table that was shoved into the corner.

He took out the items in the bag—a loaf of sourdough bread, a package of chicken, a half-gallon of milk, three pitiful-looking carrots, and a box of crackers—and put them away halfheartedly. Done, he paced the kitchen, which only took about four strides, then wandered into his living/bedroom. He flipped on his small, battered radio, restless. Classical music emerged through a slight haze of static: Bach. Remus smiled as he imagined Sirius' look of disgust at the radio station, remembered that his friend was dead, and stopped grinning immediately.

He walked to his window, looking outside but not truly seeing the stream of people bustling past below. Movement in the sky caught his attention, a flicker of white on white. Squinting, he saw that it was an owl. Remus sighed, assuming that the bird was Hedwig, hoping that she would leave quickly when she realized that he was not going to open his window to her. He loved Harry as Sirius had, feeling as though the green-eyed boy was practically his son. However, after Sirius' disaster, Remus had realized that he did not want to become close to Harry because, after all, he was part of the Order of the Phoenix also and in just as much jeopardy. He was not certain that Harry could handle losing yet another father figure, and thus held the boy at arm's length.

Remus watched the owl fly closer, and was just about to turn away when he realized that the bird was not Hedwig at all. Frowning, he forced his window open as it swooped down. It flew in gracefully, glided in a circle near the low ceiling, and settled on his threadbare sofa. Remus let the window go, which closed itself with an undignified clunk, and faced the bird. It hooted softly, golden eyes unnerving as they bored into him.

"Where are you from?" he asked it softly, unlashing the letter that was tied to its leg. The envelope, with its Hogwarts crest, answered him. He put the letter down and hauled the window open again. The owl flew out quickly, and he got the feeling that he had made it nervous.

_Of course._ _Who don't I make uncomfortable, being what I am?_

He reflected upon this, smiling humorlessly. Then he picked the Hogwarts envelope up, broke the seal, and tugged the thick parchment out.

_To Mr. Remus Lupin:_

_You are being contacted by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry concerning an opening in our staff. We at Hogwarts are hopeful that you will be available to take the job. Please come soon to discuss it._

_Regards,  
__Albus Dumbledore  
__Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
_

An opening in the Hogwarts staff? Remus knew that it was not for him; the letter was a cover, actually about the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore had an assignment for him. As for the last line, asking him to come soon for a conversation about the offered job, he realized that it meant that he should come upon receiving the letter. Remus folded the parchment back up and shoved it into the envelope before putting it into his jacket pocket.

It was a bad time for Dumbledore to request his time. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, though, he laughed bitterly. Who was he kidding? He was unemployed with barely enough money to pay his rent and no family. How could he turn the job down? How could he ask someone else, like Molly Weasley, who had seven children and a husband to take care of, or Nymphadora Tonks, who was still so young, to risk their lives in place of him?

Remus went to his closet and threw a few changes of clothes into a suitcase, not knowing if he would need them or not, baring his teeth in annoyance when he saw how threadbare a few of them were. They would have to be re-patched soon. He rifled around in the back of the closet, where he kept about half of his money. He grabbed all of it as soon as he found it and counted it carefully. It was barely more than what Mrs. Browning charged for a month's rent. With a sigh, he pocketed it and walked out the door, turning off the lights and locking the room. He interrupted Mrs. Browning in front of Vladimir Chouchounova's room, where she was still trying to coax the Russian man to at least pay the rent, and handed her the money.

"I'm going away for a bit," he lied when she gazed questioningly at his worn suitcase. "I got a call; my friend has fallen ill."

"I'm sorry about that," Mrs. Browning replied. "Have a safe journey, I hope your friend gets well soon."

Remus thanked her and strode from the building.


	2. A Talk in the Tower

**_Chapter Two: A Talk in the Tower_**

Albus Dumbledore smiled when Remus walked into his office. "Have a seat, Remus," he told his former employee. "I trust that it was easy for you to enter the school?"

"Yes, Professor McGonagall escorted me in," Remus answered, moving toward the indicated chair. The pictures of the former Hogwarts headmasters and –mistresses gazed at him, curious. He nodded to them politely before addressing Dumbledore again, frowning. Something about the room bothered him. He felt his hackles rising; there was a scent here that he knew from some distant memory but could not quite place. What wasn't he seeing? "What did you…?" The words died on his lips when he spied the cause of his uneasiness.

Severus Snape strode from the window toward another chair before the headmaster's desk, unable to keep a sneer from his face at the sight of his old enemy. Remus stared, making note of Snape's pronounced limp, then turned toward Dumbledore, who read the question in his grey eyes and told him, "Severus is here because his job overlaps with yours."

Remus nodded and sat stiffly, fighting to maintain his focus as Snape's familiar, angry scent reached him fully. It brought back memories from a long time ago, memories that he wanted to forget. "What is this job you have for me?" he asked the headmaster, more brusquely than he had meant to.

Dumbledore waited for Snape to have a seat also, and said, "Remus, you are aware that Severus has been acting as the Order's spy among Voldemort's ranks. However, unfortunately, Severus' allegiance was doubtful in Voldemort's eyes from the beginning. He received a tip, which confirmed his suspicions as to where Severus' loyalty lies, and—"

"He tried to kill me," Snape interrupted bluntly. He continued, "I'll never be rid of the limp."

Remus was unable to conceal his pity for the other man when he said, "I'm sorry about that, Severus."

Snape's sneer became more pronounced. "Keep your sympathy," he spat.

Remus shrugged apologetically. Dumbledore cast a warning glance in Snape's direction. "We have no spies with Voldemort now," Dumbledore stated. "None that are on the inside, in any case."

Remus raised his eyebrows, beginning to realize what he was being asked to do. "I'm the new candidate for spy."

Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and forming a triangle of his fingers. His blue eyes were piercing. "Apparently, Voldemort is planning to enlist the help of both vampires and werewolves in this Second War."

"Despite how unpredictable we are?" Remus asked, incredulous. "He's taking a great risk, for both himself and his Death Eaters."

"He has never been known for his concern for his followers," Dumbledore reminded Remus. "And he believes himself invulnerable to attack, which, perhaps, he is."

"Still," Remus mused, slightly disturbed, "it is incalculably dangerous if anything went wrong…and plenty could. Werewolves…we are not dogs, to be tamed and set to work."

"Why should he care?" Snape cut in quietly. "He thinks that he cannot be hurt, and the vampires and werewolves could tip the balance in his favor. He knows that a lot of your kind are angered by the treatment wizards normally give you."

"Remus," Dumbledore said gravely, "Voldemort is going to approach you, perhaps not soon, but at some point. He realizes that it will be risky, knowing your affiliation with me, and with the rest of the Order; he may even know that you were part of the original Order. But he will come, because he believes that you may hold a grudge."

"A grudge?" Remus asked, confused. "Why?"

"You resigned from your teaching post here two years ago due to circumstances surrounding your condition, but Voldemort was told that you were fired."

Remus nodded slowly. "He thinks I might be bitter because I was discriminated against by the very person who was supposed to be on my side. I'm to agree to his offer to join him, then?"

"Yes."

He glanced sidelong at Snape, who was watching him intently, dark eyes cold and calculating. "You'll want to agree as soon as the terms are set down," Snape advised quietly. "He'll trust you if he thinks your decision is instinctive, the product of two years of brooding. If you ask for time, it immediately opens the door to the possibility that you are awaiting orders from an outside party. Of course, if you refuse, they'll try to kill you on the spot to prohibit you from spreading information to their opposition—namely, us."

Dumbledore, too, was watching him. "Are you up to it, Remus? It is an extremely risky job, probably the most risky we have. Your correspondence with us will have to be minimal and cautious. You won't be allowed to write Harry," he added thoughtfully. Remus wondered how Dumbledore knew that Harry was in contact with him.

"I don't anyway," he replied, choosing not to elaborate.

"Your response is not expected immediately; but we will have to know sooner rather than—"

"I'll do it."

Dumbledore sat up abruptly. Remus could sense his surprise; even Snape looked startled by his rapid decision. Regaining his quiet control, Dumbledore told him, "Please, Remus. I would like you to have time to think about it."

"Impulsive choices," Remus said. "It's a requirement, isn't it? And I have nothing to lose by agreeing," he added, looking down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.

"You will be forced to receive a Dark Mark. It will be spread among the wizarding community that you have turned if news leaks about the Dark Lord seeking the aid of werewolves and vampires." This came from Snape, who had an odd look in his eyes. Remus was uncertain whether it was regret, sorrow, or some other emotion.

"I know," he said, very quietly.

Dumbledore studied him. Remus continued to look at his hands. "Very well," the headmaster said heavily. "If you are sure that this is all right." Remus nodded, climbing to his feet and meeting the headmaster's gaze evenly.

"I will be careful in my reports to you." He turned to Snape. "Have you any further advice for me?" Snape considered this.

"Tread softly," he said finally. "The Dark Lord can sense lies, as animals can sense emotions. However, if you can manage half-truths, the truth will mask the lie. If you can, look him in the eyes while reporting. It will gain you what little trust he holds for the followers that have not been in Azkaban these past fourteen years."

Remus nodded again. "So be it," he said, and walked from the room without a goodbye.

Still in the room, Snape turned to Dumbledore. "I distrust his integrity."

Dumbledore appeared to be taken aback. "Severus, you disappoint me. I did not believe that your boyhood dislike would play a part in this. Remus Lupin is one of the most honest people I know. I trust him with all of our lives," he informed his employee sharply.

"My 'boyhood dislike' does not carry over to this; Lupin was always the most tolerable of the four, in my opinion. I realize that he is one of the most honest people you know. That is why I trust him, and why I do not trust his integrity. Will he be able to lie to the Dark Lord, to pretend to be one agent when he is really another? And will he be able to control himself when the full moon comes and the Dark Lord decides to instruct him to kill someone?"

Dumbledore sighed. "All of those are good questions, Severus. I myself have asked them. But after much consideration, I sincerely believe in Remus' ability to do this."

"But at what price? Will he have to sacrifice himself to complete his job properly?"

"There is always something to be paid," Dumbledore replied, his age and weariness showing in his face for once. "And I truly hope that this will not be too large a price."


	3. The Second Meeting

A/N: Many thanks to Rae Roberts for taking the time to review...

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****Chapter Three: The Second Meeting**_

Remus did not have a long wait. Eight days following his return to London, he was approached by a man while having dinner at his favorite restaurant. The man stepped into the restaurant casually, peered around, spotted him in the corner, and sauntered over as though they had business together. Which, he reflected, perhaps they did.

The man sat down at his table. Remus raised his eyebrows. His guest was average height, with blonde hair and blue eyes: deceptively regular looks, looks that would be easily forgotten or lost in a crowd. His scent, however, belied his typical features; it was pungent, an assault on Remus' sensitive nose.

"Remus Lupin?" his visitor inquired.

"That would be me," he said. "And you are…?"

The man considered. "Inconsequential. I am a courier, no more." He smiled. It did not touch his eyes.

"A courier," Remus mused, disliking him more with every second. "For whom?"

"He did not tell me that you would be well-educated. However, one should never assume."

Remus shrugged. "I taught at Hogwarts once. Education was required."

"Yes, I have heard about that," the Death Eater replied slyly. "No doubt the end of that job was a disappointment for you."

Remus narrowed his eyes. "Naturally," he said, feigning suppressed anger. The man could not conceal his satisfaction.

"You were…fired, were you not?"

He growled low in his throat. His visitor looked slightly wary now. Remus could smell the beginnings of fear on him, heavy, bitter. _Standard wizard, afraid of werewolves._ "Dumbledore fired me, yes, if you want it in plain terms."

"I can imagine how angered you must have been. Tell me, do you know why he fired you?"

Remus leaned back, apparently suddenly suspicious. "You know," he accused.

"I have certain reliable sources."

"What do these sources of yours tell you?"

"That you are a werewolf."

"You know this, and you still speak to me. What do you want?" Remus demanded.

"We would like your help."

"'We' meaning your master and you."

"Of course."

"Who is your master?"

The man leaned forward conspiratorially. Quietly, he stated, "The Dark Lord."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Help, you say? What could He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named possibly need from me?"

"He wants you to join him against his opposition." Voldemort's messenger was watching him carefully. "He knows that you must be angry at wizards like Dumbledore who treat you like an animal rather than a human."

"I am an animal," Remus stated, allowing himself to snarl. This, however, was no act. It was truth. The man looked alarmed. The fear-scent grew stronger. Remus gave a feral grin. "Inform your master that I will join, provided that he allows me the unrestricted Hunt I desire."

The man nodded too eagerly: further evidence of his agitation. "He will be in touch with you soon."

Remus' grin did not fade; he knew it frightened the Death Eater, and for some reason, he also knew that it was crucial to unbalance this single link to Voldemort. "Very well. Goodbye, courier." His guest stood and strode from the restaurant as abruptly as he had appeared.


	4. Lift a Stone

A/N: A nod to the famous Robert Ludlum, whose ingenius creative talents helped me come up with a way for Voldemort to meet with potential followers without the risk of getting himself captured or killed.

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**Chapter Four: 'Lift a Stone...'**

The next morning, Remus was taking a walk, wandering aimlessly about the streets of London without clear purpose or direction, when the blonde-haired Death Eater of the previous night materialized behind him.

Remus recognized his telltale scent and slowed, allowing the man to catch up. Without looking at the Death Eater now striding along next to him, Remus stated, "Hello, courier. What news have you?"

The man stuck his hands in his pockets, the very picture of a civilian out for a leisurely morning stroll. His discomfort did not show on the surface. "You are to meet the Dark Lord in fifteen minutes."

"So soon?" Remus inquired. The courier opened his mouth to reply. Remus cut him off. "Yes, I understand why. I cannot meet with outside parties to inform them of this rendezvous if given such a short time frame. Where?"

The blonde-haired man faltered, blinking, thrown off balance by Remus' rapid changes of topic. He cleared his throat, buying himself time, then queried, "Are you familiar with the Muggle's church a few blocks away? St. Joseph's?"

"I am."

The messenger halted; Remus mimicked him. The man no longer smelled of uncertainty, but was completely focused on business. "Listen to me very carefully, for one misstep will get you killed. You are to go to that church in fifteen minutes. Go inside and have a seat in the third pew from the back on the left side of the aisle. Wait there for one minute. Then walk to the confessionals and enter the one farthest to the right. The Dark Lord awaits you. Greet him with these words: 'Father, lift a stone and you will find me.' He will reply with, 'Child of God, the Kingdom is within you.' If you do not hear that response, it is not the Dark Lord; something will have gone wrong, perhaps he will have scouted the place out and found something he disliked. Stay near the church; another messenger will approach you and a different meeting will be arranged with you within an hour's time."

Remus nodded to show that he understood. "'Father, lift a stone and you will find me,'" he repeated, half to himself, to make sure that he could recall the correct phrase.

"Good luck," the courier told him gravely, his sincerity surprising Remus. "Remember—St. Joseph's in fifteen minutes." He disappeared into the crowd, his plain features doing their job as Remus promptly lost sight of him.

He sighed and made an abrupt turn, apologizing as he nearly bowled a Muggle over, retracing his steps. He could reach the church in less than ten minutes if he hurried. As he walked, he wondered if he would be better off appearing early or right on time. He decided that the former left less room for doubt on Voldemort's part. It was a brilliant cover, he mused, setting up meetings in a church—the last place anyone who was hunting for someone like Voldemort would look.

St. Joseph's church came into view slowly. Remus regarded it doubtfully, for, like most places in this part of London, it had clearly seen better days. Then he shrugged. Who was he to judge? He lived in an apartment in worse shape at the moment, and he had lived in buildings hardly suited for human occupation before.

He entered the church, looking around curiously. It was a completely nondescript, unremarkable church. A faded red carpet decorated the aisle that made its slightly meandering way down the center of the building, ending in the front with an altar. He counted seven rows of pews marching stolidly down either side of the aisle. Several windows filtered streams of dirty sunlight into the church, where they gathered into pools of tarnished pale gold.

Remus walked carefully to the third pew from the back on the left and sat down. There were four other people besides him, as well as a priest. The priest watched him quizzically, glanced around to make sure that he was not needed elsewhere, and approached Remus.

"Hello, welcome to St. Joseph's," the priest greeted him. "I don't believe we've seen you here before."

"No," Remus agreed. "I'm passing through the city on the way to visit a friend in the country. Since I won't be traveling again until tomorrow, however, I decided to come pay my respects to the Lord."

The priest nodded. "It is good to see one so fervent in his faith."

Remus smiled wanly. "I try."

An awkward silence settled between them, and then the priest simply nodded once more and trundled off. _Poor fellow_, Remus thought. _Doesn't even know why he's so bothered by me_. He knew that he had unnerved the man; it was in his posture as he strode away, in the aroma he gave off: a faint mix of salt, cloves, and slightly burnt rubber that Remus had long come to associate with confusion.

Remus shrugged it off as unimportant. Why did he care what a Muggle priest thought of him? He slid a tattered Bible from the back of the pew in front him and leafed through it impatiently. The stifled atmosphere in the church irritated him. He normally enjoyed silence, but now it weighed upon him heavily. Every sound, already emphasized by his heightened sense of hearing, was amplified threefold, echoing through his mind until he thought he could no longer bear it. The priest was in the front of the church, pacing, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. A woman in the front row wheezed softly every time she inhaled. A man behind and to his right sniffled and turned a page. Another man two pews in front of him mumbled as he read, or prayed. Remus felt a low growl forming deep in his throat.

He stood up and the sounds retreated immediately. Calmly, he strode up the aisle, turned right, and entered the confessional farthest to the right. The words came easily, though he could feel the fluttering of apprehension within his stomach, like a caged bird searching frantically for a way out.

"Father, lift a stone and you will find me."

He heard the stirrings of the figure on the other side of the curtain that divided sinner from priest. The other man's breathing was even and deliberate, his heartbeat strong. When he spoke, his voice was cold and composed. "Child of God, the Kingdom is within you." There was a pause in which Remus struggled to regain control of himself. Voldemort's scent was overpowering: a harsh, metallic aroma laced with rage and utterly inhuman. Added to the heady solidity of his anger was the conflicting sweetness of excitement. "Remus Lupin," the voice stated smoothly, leaving no room for argument. "I was uncertain whether or not I would be privileged enough to be graced with your presence."

"Why would I turn your offer down?" Remus fought to keep his voice steady. "I have nothing lose, and everything to gain."

"Indeed," Voldemort whispered. "So many of us feel that way. So many of your kind, suppressed by wizards who haven't the slightest inkling of the beauty that they restrict." Remus shuddered involuntarily, digging the fingernails of his right hand into the soft flesh of his left wrist to stop the singing call of the Hunt that rushed through his veins at Voldemort's softly spoken proclamation. The pain cleared his mind. "I can sense your agreement," Voldemort said. When Remus did not reply, he continued, "However, I have doubts about you yet, my friend, suspicions that I must lay to rest. You are in contact with Severus Snape." It was not a question.

Remus growled. "Snape sends me the Wolfsbane potion under Dumbledore's instruction," he told Voldemort honestly.

"Do you use the potion?"

"I do, for it would be dangerous not to while the Ministry of Magic continues to meddle in Muggle affairs. If I accidentally exposed myself among the Muggles, the Ministry would put me on trial like a beast—unable to defend myself in their courts according to their laws, they would appoint one of their own as my lawyer to make sure that I would lose the case. I would be caged or, far likelier, killed." Remus allowed the bitterness he felt to leak into his voice, for he spoke only truth regarding the trials of werewolves. "They do not view us as human beings."

"Regretful, to say the least," Voldemort breathed. "And they will never change, will they?"

Remus laughed quietly. _Half-truths_, he reminded himself. "Of course not," he snarled harshly, pretending to answer the second comment while actually replying to the first. That was the truth, for there were people within the Ministry working to change the law. Now for the lie. "They are right to consider us beasts, and indeed, I wish to join you so that I may Hunt unhindered."

There was silence behind the curtain for a long moment. Remus thought he picked up just the slightest tinge of doubt in Voldemort's scent; perhaps he was reconsidering the decision to allow werewolves into his army. Finally, the cold voice spoke once more. "I see. You and I, Remus Lupin, are not that different from one another. I sense your need for revenge, Remus, your bitterness that those who should defend you have only turned away. I too have suffered a similar betrayal. And because of this, I believe that I must trust your passion."

"Thank you, my lord," Remus whispered fervently. He felt Voldemort's satisfaction; the use of "my lord" had not been lost on the other man.

"Your hunger will be satiated very soon. In the meantime, however, you must obey me. I believe you know the punishment for treachery already."

"Yes." Remus clamped down hard on his sorrow and the memories that flooded him, trying not to reminisce on those who had paid such a heavy price for defying the man that now sat no more than three feet from him. _I'm sorry_, he whimpered inwardly, seeing each of their accusing faces in his mind. _I'm sorry!_

"Then I will tell you how you are to serve me," Voldemort was saying quietly, oblivious to Remus' struggle. Remus, knowing that his life depended on stilling the beast that was tearing him apart from within, gritted his teeth and, with great effort, suppressed the howl that was rising in his throat.

"Tell me, my lord," he demanded, hoping that the strain did not show in his voice.

"I am aware that you were part of my opposition in the First War," Voldemort stated. "Foolish, but I may be able to forgive you. I want you to rejoin the opposition. Observe well, and inform me quickly of their plans."

Remus nearly laughed aloud at this irony. The spy was being asked to spy for the one that he was spying on in the first place. "I will, my lord."

"I would also like you to find others of your kind and bring them to our side. If they refuse to comply…feel free to Hunt as you wish." A piece of folded parchment was slid under the curtain. Remus took it, and Voldemort explained, "There are a few names on that for you to begin with."

"Thank you," he murmured, placing the list in his pocket. "I will not fail you."

"I expect reports every week at the latest. If I need you, I will find you." The dismissal was clear.

"Goodbye, my lord," Remus said.

"Farewell, child of God," Voldemort breathed. The sneer of contempt in his voice set Remus' hackles on end as he gratefully exited the confessional.


	5. Memories

**_Chapter Five: Memories_**

Later that night, Remus paced his small living room restlessly. His bare feet were silent on the wooden floor, despite the perpetual shiver that had plagued him throughout the entire afternoon. He seemed unable to rid himself of Voldemort's smell or the memory of that cold, callous voice. Baring his teeth in a snarl of frustration, he forced himself to stand still in front of the window. Twilight was creeping through the streets and alleys of London, preparing to wrap the city in the night's embrace. The swollen moon peeked over the buildings across from Remus' apartment, its light a pale silver imitation of sunlight, but lacking all of the sun's warmth. He growled at it, reminded that the full moon was only two nights away.

He turned from the window and the sight of the accursed, mocking moon suddenly. The abrupt movement caused a fresh wave of tremors to sweep across his body. Muttering a string of expletives under his breath, Remus stalked to the closet and yanked a worn blanket from the shelf. He wrapped it around himself tightly, still growling curses, reverting to French when his English had been exhausted, and then to Spanish and finally Romanian. His irritation carried him, trailing curses, to the light switch near the door, where he vehemently turned the light off. Darkness flowed over him and his apartment, cool and soothing. When he had used up every expletive he knew, Remus flopped onto the couch with a sigh. He lay there for a minute before climbing back to his feet, unable to stay still.

Impulsively, he made his way to the kitchen, where he prowled from cupboard to cupboard, opening and closing the same ones several times, as though he hoped that some sort of new, wonderful food would suddenly appear if he kept searching long enough. _Comfort food_, his mind requested. He sighed once more. It was times such as this when he longed to be able to eat chocolate, which was renowned for its ability to make anyone who consumed it happier. However, unfortunately, he was unable to partake of any chocolate because his wolf side would have an extremely negative, possibly fatal reaction to it, just as any dog would. Casting his mind about for ideas, he finally settled on tea.

As soon as it had been brewed and poured into a very chipped teacup, Remus wandered back into his living/bedroom and stood once again in front of his window. The moon's siren call was too much for him to resist, compelling, summoning. Especially around the full moon, he was drawn to it. He battled with the part of him that wanted nothing more than to reply to its call, stifling a howl by taking a large gulp of tea. Slowly, he regained his composure and leaned on the windowsill, putting his teacup down next to him and resting his head on his hands.

Memories surfaced gradually, and he made no attempt to struggle against them as he had before.

_Your hunger will be satiated very soon. In the meantime, however, you must obey me. I believe you know the punishment for treachery already._

He saw James and Sirius as they had been in the fifth year, sitting with Peter Pettigrew in the Gryffindor common room around midnight, plotting adventures for the coming full moon. He remembered James and Lily's joy on their wedding day. Other faces came to him, too, outside his immediate circle of friends. Frank and Alice Longbottom, dancing gleefully at a Yule Ball so many years ago. Marlene McKinnon, a quiet Ravenclaw that had frequented the Hogwarts library almost as much as Remus had. The twins, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, both brilliant chasers for Hufflepuff. Dorcas Meadowes, the Gryffindor with a dreamer's eyes and perpetually mussed blonde hair, who had always asked him for help on their Astronomy homework…

Remus bowed his head, sickened by the knowledge that every one of them was dead at Voldemort and his Death Eaters' hands, and that he was helping their killers in some peculiar way. For once he wished that the full moon would come sooner so that he could transform and Hunt Voldemort, take revenge and force him to pay the blood-price that he owed to so many.

_It would never work_, a nasty, reasonable part of Remus whispered. _You would be killed like an animal, just another on the long list of causalities, and then what good would you be?_

He silenced the howling of sorrow and guilt within him laboriously and turned from the window, leaving his forgotten, half-drunk tea to grow cold on the windowsill. He padded to his couch and lay down, trying to think of nothing, thankful when sleep finally came to claim him.


	6. Owl Post and Bad Luck

**_Chapter Six: Owl Post and Bad Luck_**

Remus woke with a start, sensing the sunlight sliding across his body. He opened his eyes and quickly closed them again, groaning at the sudden brightness and turning over. It felt as though he had a slight hangover, though he had not drunk any alcohol for months. He remembered yesterday's events in a rush as he stood and shook himself like a dog would, trying to clear his head.

_I need an owl_, he realized. It had always been a problem for him—he never seemed to be able to come up with enough money to afford one.

As though someone had been listening to his thoughts, there was a sudden fluttering of wings at his window. He spun and stared at the owl disbelievingly. Coming to his senses as the owl glared at him and continued to batter the glass, he strode to the window and yanked it open. With a loud hoot of annoyance, the bird glided in, knocking Remus' tea from the previous night off of the windowsill. The cup shattered on the floor; tea splattered everywhere.

Remus scowled at the bird, took out his wand, and muttered, "_Reparo_." The teacup repaired itself neatly, but the tea remained pooled on the floor. Deciding to clean it manually—he tried to keep spell casting to a minimum when living in such close proximity to Muggles—he went to his kitchen, grabbed a dishtowel, and mopped up the liquid. The owl, perched on the radio that sat on the table by his couch, watched the process disdainfully.

Once the towel had been put in the sink and the teacup on the kitchen counter, Remus faced the bird. It ruffled its feathers importantly and stuck its leg out. Remus untied the note.

_Remus:  
__This owl's name is Chester. He will stay with you. Use him to keep in contact. Remember to let him out during full moons._

The note was unsigned, but Remus recognized Dumbledore's neat handwriting regardless. Chester hooted loudly. Remus looked up at him and realized that he had a small package lashed to his other leg. He murmured an apology and unwrapped it hastily.

It was a small blood-red feather, tipped with gold. A phoenix feather. A note in the package read:

_Just in case._

Remus frowned. He knew a great deal about phoenixes, having read several books on them, but he did not know anything about their feathers other than that they were used in wands and that any arrow with phoenix feather fletching would fly absolutely straight. He ran his fingers over it. It felt like rigid silk. He shrugged, wrapped it in a tissue to prevent it from being damaged, and tucked it carefully into the inside pocket of his robe.

"So," he said, regarding Chester, "you're to be my owl." Chester hooted balefully. "Well, I suppose you'll need a cage." He flicked his wand and a cage appeared. "There. You'll have to hunt for your food, mind. I don't have enough money to buy treats for you." The bird did not seem perturbed by this news. "I know you've just made a long trip, but I've got to ask you to carry a letter for me."

He uprooted some spare parchment from his closet and sat down on his couch, leaning on the table where Chester was perched on the radio. Dipping his quill into his ink, he thought a moment, then scrawled:

_Many thanks for the use of Chester. I've been in need of an owl for quite some time. I've also been thinking—perhaps I will take that job after all. I'll come to see you about it soon. In other news, I recently saw a play about a man searching for a phoenix feather. It was very good, but I'm afraid that I didn't quite understand the plot. I believe you have seen the play also, and maybe you could share your interpretation? Thanks again.  
__Remus_

Remus capped his bottle of ink, allowed the letter to dry, and then tied it to Chester's leg. "Take this to Albus Dumbledore," he told the owl, who hooted in comprehension. For a moment, he stayed on the couch, stroking Chester's silky feathers. He was about to haul the window open again to allow Chester to fly out, when there was a commanding knock on the door. Unthinking, he crossed the room and unlocked it.

Mrs. Browning stood outside, smiling regretfully. "Remus, there you are. I'm so sorry, but I was counting the money you gave me and realized that you're about twenty pounds short—is that an owl?"

Remus froze, horrified by his mistake, as he felt Chester land on his shoulder. _Oh, no_, he thought. Mrs. Browning's eyebrows came together with an almost audible snap. Her usual slightly cabbage-y scent was full of a bittersweet aroma that reminded Remus of a certain kind of wine: disapproval.

"That _is _an owl," she said rigidly, answering her own question. "You know the rule about animals in this apartment, Remus!" Her voice was rising. Remus heard several of his neighbors stirring, walking toward their doors to figure out what the commotion was.

Remus tried to look comforting. "I know, Mrs. Browning, I'm sorry. I just—I mean, well, he…" He struggled to find the correct words. What could he tell her? _My apologies, Mrs. Browning, but I have to have this owl. You see, I'm spying on the most dangerous wizard the world has ever seen, and so I have to remain in contact with my friends, who also oppose this wizard_? It was ridiculous.

She pushed her way past him into his room. "A pet, is he?" she demanded, eyes lighting upon the cage. Remus remained in the doorway, emotionlessly returning the stares of his neighbors, who were peering curiously at him from the safety of their own rooms. Slowly, each of them withdrew, but he could hear them lingering at their doors, listening intently. The floor was filled with the sickly smell of apprehension, a combination of sugar and somewhat rotten apples.

Inside his room, Mrs. Browning was on the prowl. She spotted the droppings that Chester had just made and whirled, her anger assaulting Remus' nose harshly. "Of all the boarders in this miserable place, Remus," she shrieked, "I thought you were the best. No screaming children running around and smashing things or getting underfoot, you speak fluent English, you manage to pay your rent almost on time…But now I find out you're keeping a dratted animal in here, when the rules explicitly ban them from the premises!"

"Mrs. Browning, please," he pleaded weakly, realizing that it was useless. He knew the rules. Chester was flapping around the ceiling, hooting in agitation, making matters worse. The landlady's eyes followed his flight with disgust.

"No, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave," she snapped. "I refuse to tolerate beasts of any sort in my apartment."

_Then you never should have allowed me to stay here in the first place_, he wanted to snarl at her. His own anger was rising quickly, the wolf within baying wildly, wanting to growl, to tear her throat, taste her blood and smell her fear as she struggled, her life fleeing…

_No!_ he cried, the reasonable part of him howling in protest. _She has every right to kick me out! She doesn't realize what she just said!_

Mrs. Browning was watching him carefully, waiting for a response, perhaps wondering if he would attempt to fight her decision.

"I understand," Remus said quietly. "I'll leave within the hour."

The woman nodded and made for the door. Wordlessly, he stopped her, went to the kitchen, and took out what remained of his money. It was not much. He counted out twenty pounds and handed them to her. Her scent was of sorrow now, but also of determination: the former was sharp and sour, like vinegar, the latter spicy, like ginger. Combined, they made his head ache fiercely.

"Thank you," the apartment's owner said, pocketing the money and leaving. Remus waited for the door to shut behind her before sinking onto the couch. Chester settled next to him, hooting softly into his ear. He waved the bird away, went to the window, and yanked it open. The owl circled Remus once and then flew out.

Sighing heavily, Remus took out his wand and to his—_no, not his anymore_—_the _closet. He dragged his trunk and two suitcases from it. The trunk was practically a bookcase, with his Comet Two-Sixty broomstick and collapsible cauldron the only two items in it that were not books. He used the Reductor spell on his couch, kitchen table and chairs, dishes, radio, living room table, and Chester's cage before jamming them into the trunk and closing it firmly. Then he used the same spell on the trunk and shoved it, now only slightly larger than a tin of Altoids, into his pocket. He packed his two suitcases with his Muggle clothing and his wizard's robes, and then put all of the non-perishable food he had bought the other day in as well. Remus set the luggage by the door, turned, and walked to the center of the now-barren room. He sat down where he stood and rested his head on his hands, wondering what else could possibly happen to him.


	7. Of Money, Shelter, and Potion

A/N: Thanky very much to Rae Roberts, who completely rocks for reviewing. In response, I'd just like to tell you that the priest isn't one of those characters that turns out being pivotal and such; I figured a church should have a priest, but once I put him in I didn't really know what to do with him. So I made him one of the rare Muggles that can sense that something is "not-quite-right" about Remus. Oh, and I fixed that bit about the owl...completely slipped my mind that animals are relatively safe around werewolves, so thanks for the reminder. Although I still say that animals are more perceptive than a lot of humans and therefore should feel slightly uncomfortable around "unnatural" things like werewolves.

Anyway, without further adu, I give thee, with a large flourish...Chapter Seven!**_

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_**

**_Chapter Seven: Of Money, Shelter, and Potion_**

_It's okay_, Remus told himself as he walked down the street, away from the apartment that he had lived in for nearly seven months. _I've been here before._

It was the truth, and he knew that he would manage. However, there were three things that worried him: where to go next, his financial situation, and what he would do the following night. Snape's owl usually came the night preceding full moon with the Wolfsbane potion, which was tonight, but would it be able to find him? He worried about this briefly as he stepped into an alleyway to use the Reductor spell on his suitcases. Then he pushed the thought to the back of his head, knowing that it was beyond his control. He would simply have to trust that the bird would come.

Remus decided to take care of his monetary problem first. He shoved his suitcases, now smaller than the size of his palms, into the inside pocket of his jacket and stepped back out onto the sidewalk. He observed the surrounding crowd carefully as he began to walk, watching for a pompous rich man that he would have no qualms about robbing, a skill that he had learned through necessity because of his constant unemployment.

There; he spotted a likely looking candidate. The man in question was striding confidently along ahead, practically yelling to his meekly agreeing companion about how horrid the city and his fellow walkers were.

"Honestly, did you see that woman's outfit?" Remus heard him demand loudly. The object of the man's conversation threw him a dirty look over her shoulder. He took no notice. "I can't believe some of the things people wear these days…"

_And you should talk_, Remus mused, raising an eyebrow at the man's brown and yellow tweed suit jacket. His pants were a particularly horrible shade of dark yellow. He walked faster, touching the man on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir," he said politely. The man stopped, wheeling around to stare at Remus.

"What the bloody hell do you want?"

"Just wondering if this is your wallet," Remus replied, holding up his own. The man unconsciously patted his right back pocket. Remus concealed a smile.

"No," the man told him brusquely. He walked away, his companion following timidly. "You know why I hate this part of the city? Because people like that man always come around begging for your money," he bellowed, making no effort to prevent Remus from hearing his comment. "Probably a ruddy hobo."

Remus followed silently, ignoring the remark as he carefully slid the loud man's wallet from his pocket. The man continued to walk away, completely oblivious to the theft that had just taken place. Remus grinned. He loved the sheer stupidity of people like that.

"Hey, you!" a voice rasped from somewhere to his left. He looked over to see a scruffy woman in an overcoat more patched than his. Her hair was a mess, and her skin was dirty and wrinkled, although she couldn't have been a day older than thirty. She beckoned to him. Remus approached her with caution. He could not sense any animosity, but she smelled so pungent that perhaps he was simply losing it in the rest.

"What do you want?" he queried, not unkindly. She cackled.

"Saw you nick tha' bloke's wallet," she said, leaning toward him conspiratorially.

Remus looked around, the picture of innocence. "What bloke?"

"Don' be playin' idiot, mister," she told him. "I knows you nicked 'is wallet. How much 'e got in there?"

"I don't know," Remus replied. "Why'd you ask?"

"'Cause I thinks I could go tell 'im you took 'is wallet, and 'e cin git the police to come an' put you in the clink."

"Now, you wouldn't want to do that."

"'Course I don', but I will. 'Less, 'course, you wanna give me a bit o' that money you got."

Remus suppressed a grin. "Twenty pounds?"

"Give it 'ere, mister." He handed her the money. She grinned and pocketed it. "Good doin' business with you." She disappeared down an alley.

Remus turned and began to walk again, trying not to laugh. It was his fault he had been caught, after all. He rifled through the wallet; it had nearly three hundred pounds in it. He walked quickly, catching up to the large, obnoxious owner of the wallet and replacing it, devoid of money, in his back pocket.

Now financially secure for at least a time, Remus pondered his second problem. Where should he go? He briefly considered Grimmauld Place, but decided against it almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind. The house was full of memories of Sirius. Telling himself that he was avoiding going to Grimmauld Place because he did not want to endanger whoever was staying at the house right now with his impending transformation and not because he didn't think he could bear facing the memories of his friend, he halted at a bus stop to truly consider the matter of where he could stay tonight. _Preferably somewhere inside_, he mused, picking up the smell of coming rain on the breeze.

Remus caught a glimpse of himself mirrored in the window of a car stopped at the traffic light near him. He was, as always, startled by how tired he looked. His brown hair, threaded with grey, was disheveled and shaggy; he needed a haircut. His reflection gazed back at him with quiet grey eyes. His black Muggle coat was fraying at the collar. _No wonder that man thought that I'm homeless._ He grinned suddenly at the notion, because of course he was now, and his face changed. His apparent fatigue lifted somewhat and his eyes lit up, all seriousness banished. He marveled at the transformation, and then the car drove away.

His ears pricked suddenly as he picked up the sound of wing beats above him. He glanced upward, squinting against what little sunlight managed to force its way through the clouds that had gathered in the past hour to clog the sky, and saw an owl circling. It was Snape's. Remus stood and unobtrusively slipped into a nearby alleyway. The bird flew down almost lazily to land on his arm. He quickly untied the heavy package it carried and it took off again, spiraling upward until it was lost in the clouds. Remus suppressed a yip of happiness as he tore into the box.

Three bottles full of a murky substance that bubbled like soda met his gaze. They were curiously warm to his touch when he reached in and picked them up. He cradled a bottle gently for a second, then retrieved his suitcase from his pocket and restored it to its proper size. After transferring the potion to the suitcase and shrinking it once again, he tucked it lovingly into his pocket, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders—he could transform tomorrow night with as much safety as possible.

Suddenly a great deal more confident, he walked back onto the sidewalk almost jauntily—_Padfoot would be proud_, he thought—renewing his search for somewhere to stay that night.


	8. A Shack, a Muggle, and a Mistake

Author's note: Thanks once again to Rae Roberts, my most beloved reviewer. Alas, I couldn't find any place to slip in some completely gratuitous sex...kidding! (grin) I shan't do such a thing, never you worry. And I know you were looking forward to some better housing for Remus, but unfortunately it's not going to be in this chapter. Soon it'll crop up,though, I hope. I really do feel so horrible to keep giving Remus such bad joss. Oh well. Enjoy...

* * *

**_Chapter Eight: A Shack, a Muggle, and a Mistake_**

Six hours later, Remus' good spirits had given way to something akin to panic. It was raining steadily now, the faint darkening of the western sky hinting that twilight was near. He continued to look for shelter doggedly, wandering down street after street, completely soaked through by the rain. He was about to admit defeat and merely settle in a nearby alley, when at last he spotted a likely looking shelter.

It was a small one-story house that seemed as though it might collapse at any second. The roof was sagging and it was in dire need of at least two coats of new paint, not to mention a front door and several shutters, the latter of which now hung limply below the windows or were simply missing.

Remus approached and went in cautiously, his confidence mounting with each step. It was a wreck, but his nose told him that it was not going to cave in anytime in the near future. Then, in the midst of his explorations, he stopped abruptly. He was not alone. From a corner to his right, he perceived soft breathing and a steady pulse. As he listened, frozen, he heard the house's occupant shift, creeping around behind him within the concealment of the cottage's heavy shadows.

Remus whirled as a grizzled old man lunged at his back. He staggered under the force of his assailant's attack, then quickly straightened and pivoted away, kicking the man to the floor. His attacker tried to roll over and ward him off, but Remus swiftly knelt on his back, twisting the man's arms behind him.

"Okay, okay, you win," the old man grunted, panting. "Lemme up!"

"Not going to try and jump me again, are you?" Remus asked.

"No, 'course not, wouldn' dream o' it," the man breathlessly assured him.

"Good, because I'd have to hurt you if you did," Remus replied cheerily, carefully releasing the man and climbing to his feet.

"Eh," the old man mumbled noncommittally. "Reckon there's room 'nuff fer two folks 'ere." Remus grinned in return. "'Ere, you wouldn' happen to 'ave nothin' warm with you, would you?" the man queried, eyeing Remus hopefully. "S'bloody cold."

Remus saw with a start that his new acquaintance was shivering. He himself was perfectly fine, if not a little wet; but then again, after he had been bitten in his youth, he had found that he possessed a somewhat higher tolerance for cold weather than any normal human being.

"I've got a couple of suitcases, actually," he said. "I dropped them outside to make sure I wouldn't be caught unawares with my hands full. Hang on a minute, I'll get them." He walked outside, ears pricked to make sure that the old man was not spying on him, and slipped his suitcases from his pocket. He quickly restored them to full size and carried them back into the house. "What's your name?" he asked his acquaintance as he set his belongings on the floor.

"Ben," the man replied. He took the coat Remus offered mutely. "Whassur's?"

"Remus."

"Interestin' name. Not somethin' you come across everyday. Ain't you cold?" Ben was inspecting his soaked garments skeptically.

"Not really, but I suppose I should lay this out to dry." Remus pulled his coat off and spread it out on the dusty floor. Unearthing a sweater, he put it on before sitting down against a wall and taking stock of his surroundings.

He appeared to be in what had once been a living room, but as it was devoid of furniture and the walls were white and barren, he was not completely certain. It was strewn with dirt and, in some places where the roof had become particularly weakened, bits of ceiling. A door to the left seemed to lead into a kitchen, which was missing its appliances but housed a very worn, three-legged table. A second door in front of him was that of a bedroom, a boxspring with no mattress abandoned in the middle of it.

And then there was his new acquaintance, Ben, who was watching him warily. He was seated across the room on what was apparently the sagging, mildewed mattress that had been filched from the boxspring. He was old, at least fifty, with silvery-grey hair that straggled to his shoulders in a veritable rat's nest. He had a similarly messy beard and wizened blue eyes. He wore a pair of canvas pants, thick socks but no shoes, and Remus' coat. Remus would not have been surprised if he also had fleas.

"No one else lives here?" Remus inquired. Ben looked startled, as though he had been asked a particularly difficult question.

"Jus' ol' Ben," he responded finally.

Remus nodded. "I'll leave tomorrow," he promised. Ben relaxed slightly; Remus could sense his relief.

"Alrigh'," he said. "I'm goin' to sleep some now, if you don' mind." Remus shrugged and the man lay down, closing his eyes and pretending to slumber. Obviously he did not trust his unexpected guest.

Remus shook his head and sighed. He opened the suitcase that contained his Wolfsbane potion and removed one bottle. There were three doses: one to be taken the night prior to full moon, the second the morning of, and the last taken within two hours of transformation. He glanced outside; night was nearly upon them.

He unscrewed the cap of the bottle he held, braced himself, and downed half of it in one gulp. It tasted disgusting, a combination of all the wrong, most incongruous flavors available to mankind, and left a bitter aftertaste slightly reminiscent of lemon peel and bleach. He grimaced as he swallowed the potion, which was strangely warm and slippery, and was about to drink the other half when Ben's voice rasped from across the room:

"Gonna share any o' that with ol' Ben?" The old man had obviously mistaken the potion for alcohol.

"What, this?" Remus asked, gesturing to it. "No, you don't want any, trust me. It's medicine and tastes like hell."

"Humph," Ben grunted, unconvinced. "Medicine for what? And how'd you afford it? You're mighty educated, mister Remus, so how comes you're stayin' in a forsaken shack like this?"

"I'm staying here because I have a penchant for attracting bad luck, and I was able to afford my medicine due to the fact that I'm a fairly accomplished pick-pocket," Remus countered, carefully avoiding the first question. "Besides, I used to teach, so I've money left over from that."

"But you don't teach no more?"

"It didn't work out."

"What'd you teach?"

Remus considered for a minute. "Self-defense," he replied finally. Ben grunted; it seemed to be his favored response. "How come you're living here?" Remus asked, shifting the focus of the conversation from himself to the other man.

"Me? I was always roofless. S'okay, I like it fine 'ere, an' if I ever start dislikin' it, I'll find me another place. Wanderin's me favorite thing in the world." He went quiet, apparently reminiscing on some adventure that he'd had when he was younger.

Remus let the silence be when Ben did not say anything else. He finished his potion and leaned back against the wall, and before he knew it, he was dozing off.

He did not know how long he had been asleep when a gurgling sound and a loud groan woke him. He glanced over and saw, to his utter horror, that his suitcase had been subject to a raid. Its contents were scattered across the floor, clothing in rumpled piles as though the garments had been tossed aside at random. He froze, however, when he realized that _only one bottle of potion remained_.

There was another low moan. Remus' head snapped up and his gaze settled on the body of Ben, who was rocking back and forth on his mattress in apparent agony. Remus scrambled to his feet, covering the distance between them in three strides.

"What did you do with it?" he demanded of Ben. "What the hell did you do!" He seized the man's shoulders, meaning to shake him, and was surprised when Ben rolled over to face him without a struggle. As he glared down at him, however, his surprise turned to horror.

Ben's last breath left him with a faintly sinister hiss and Remus was left alone with a corpse that had died because of the hole that had been eaten through his stomach. He cursed, knowing that the Muggle must have taken at least a gulp of the potion. A dripping noise filled his hearing. He glanced over to see the stolen bottle of Wolfsbane, lying innocuously on its side upon the mattress. It was two-thirds of the way empty, most of it having been consumed by the homeless man and the rest spilled when Ben had put it down next to him. The potion had eroded a hole through the mattress and was now busy working on the floorboard beneath. Remus picked up the tipped bottle and inspected it. A mouthful and a little more was all that remained.

He could not help it; he loosed a howl of rage. A dog nearby answered, warning him to keep away from its territory. He fell silent, wondering what he could do, what would happen now that two-thirds of this particular dose was gone. Slowly, he made up his mind. He had to go to Grimmauld Place, no matter how unpleasant the experience for him. He packed his suitcases and shrunk them to pocket size once more before setting off across the city. With each step, a simple thought repeated in his mind. A Muggle had died because of his carelessness, and he was determined that it should never happen again.


	9. Grimmauld Place

Author's note: Hello, Rae Roberts, my favorite person in the entire world. (grin) I dunno why you wouldn't get an email after signing up for the author alert thing (by the way, I'm immensely flattered that you would do so). Maybe it was down that day, or something. Happiness that you liked chapter eight (although I regret to inform you that this chapter is just filler, no real action, and so it's going to be short and uneventful). I figured that Remus would have to know something about living on the streets since he can't seem to keep a job for very long, and therefore doesn't really have the money to pay for apartments and such. And he blamed himself irrationally, yes, but Remus is just that kind of person. Poor dear.

* * *

**_Chapter Nine: Grimmauld Place_**

Molly Weasley was clearly astonished by Remus' sudden appearance on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place in the middle of the night, but she quickly recovered and ushered him in.

"Remus, what brings you here?" Her tone was genuinely curious, and despite the dimness of the foyer, he could see that her eyes were filled with concern. It made him ache; he did not feel like he deserved anyone's sympathy at the moment.

"It's a long story," he told her as they walked across the foyer. It looked nothing like the dim, dark hall of his memories. A chandelier had been discovered, and it now hung from the ceiling, sedately bathing the room with soft candlelight. The staircase swept elegantly upward, its dark wood neatly polished and gleaming. The portrait of Sirius' mother had finally been removed, although it had cost them the part of the wall it had been mounted on. In its place was a peaceful scene of a hart ambling contentedly across a lush meadow.

"Would you like something to eat?" Molly asked once they reached the kitchen. "You look half-starved."

Remus smiled wanly. "I'm fine, Molly. Really. Full moon is tomorrow night, so I probably look worse than I actually feel, that's all." She made a small, disbelieving noise and began to bustle around the kitchen, taking out a plate and loading it with various foods.

"For goodness' sake, Remus, take that sweater off before you catch a cold, it's soaking wet. And then you can come and have a snack while you tell me what happened," she said. Detachedly, he realized that his sweater was saturated—it had started to rain again about halfway to Grimmauld Place. For a moment, he simply stood where he was, his clothes dripping rainwater onto the clean floor, and then he took out his wand. He pointed it at his clothing and muttered a spell, which dried him off within seconds.

Mutely, he accepted the plate of food that Molly had put together for him and sat down at the table. "It's a long story," he repeated. Molly took a seat across from him.

"I understand that you are working as the Order's spy now," she said hesitantly, unsure of how to broach the potentially delicate subject. Remus nodded.

"And as Voldemort's spy," he replied absently, ignoring her grimace at the sound of the name as he rearranged the cheese, fruit, and bread on the plate in front of him. "But you wanted to know how I got here," he stated abruptly. "To give you the short version, I was kicked out of my apartment, stayed half the night in a ramshackle cottage across the city, and am lacking almost an entire dosage of my Wolfsbane potion." Molly seemed to sense that he was leaving certain details out, but did not press him to fill in the holes.

"You must be worn to the bone," she said. "I'll go prepare one of the guest bedrooms for you, and when you've had a few hours of sleep maybe we can talk some more."

Remus looked up at her as she stood to leave the room. "Thank you, Molly. I truly appreciate your tolerance."

She smiled. "Did you expect me to leave you on the streets? Now you stay there for now, and I'll be back before you can say, 'Hornswiggle.'"

Remus listened to her steady, firm footsteps as she climbed the staircase and went down the hall to one of the house's many bedrooms. He rested his chin on his hand, abandoning the plate of food in front of him. He knew which room she planned to give him. It was somewhat isolated and decorated in various soothing shades of grey and blue. Normally he would have liked such décor; now, the thought of it simply depressed him. He sighed, trying to distract himself, attempting to push his mind back into its empty, disconnected state.

The footsteps continued overhead. A clock chimed somewhere across the house. A wall creaked as the wind brushed against it. The rain pattered rhythmically on the rooftop. Molly was quietly humming the newest Witching Hour's single. Remus stood and began to pace.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he heard Molly coming back downstairs. "Remus, you can go ahead and make yourself at home," she said, appearing in the doorway.

Remus nodded and swept out of the room. At the foot of the stairs, he turned to her and said, again, "Thank you, Molly."

The plump redhead smiled in response, but the cheery gesture did nothing to hide her concern.


	10. Voldemort's Spy

**_Chapter Ten: Voldemort's Spy_**

Remus opened his eyes, instantly awake. The wolf within him was howling, protesting his laziness. He turned his head to read the clock. It was 9:02. He rolled out of bed, shaking off as a dog might, and headed to the shower, where he noted appreciatively that Molly had kindly put out unscented soap and shampoo. Once finished washing, he pulled on his most acceptable-looking robes, wincing at the frayed hem and cuffs, knowing that Molly would say something about them. Remus shrugged—there was nothing else for it—and paced silently down the stairs to the kitchen.

Quiet though he was, Molly still heard him. She bustled into the room and pointed commandingly at a chair, cheerfully greeting him, "Good morning, Remus. Did you sleep well?"

Remus sighed, realizing that argument was useless, and sat. "I slept as well as I could. You must have some wolf in you, to hear me come downstairs."

Molly glanced at him rather sharply, then saw his teasing smile. She grinned back. "I daresay I have more fox in me than wolf," she quipped, gesturing vaguely at her fiery hair. "I assure you, it comes more of having a pair of mischievous twins than any sort of bestial instinct." She set a glass of orange juice and a plate full of bacon and pancakes on the table in front of him. "So tell me, Remus—what's going on?"

Remus unconsciously went straight for the bacon. As he ate, he recounted everything that had happened over the past few days. When he reached the point in his story about being thrown out of his apartment, Molly sniffed distastefully. "Muggles!" she said. "I don't have anything against them, mind, but I just cannot for the life of me understand them. Well, don't worry, Remus, you're welcome to stay here as long as you need."

Remus simply nodded and continued. When he had finished his tale, he said, "I think I should leave this afternoon."

Molly appeared taken aback. "But—Remus…what about your transformation tonight? Certainly you shouldn't have to wander the streets in that state. Especially considering your current predicament, missing an entire dose…"

Remus rubbed his eyes tiredly. The wolf within him prowled his mind restlessly, and he was filled with a sudden longing to transform under starlight, to be able to run where he wished. _Another night in a cage will destroy you_, part of him growled. _No! _his rational side insisted. _I won't endanger innocent lives if I have any say in it._ He shook his head to clear it, and told Molly, "I can find somewhere—an abandoned warehouse or something. I'll be okay, Molly," he said. He could smell her concern. "Don't worry about me."

She swallowed. "I know you can take care of yourself, but it's just been getting so much more dangerous lately—Death Eaters are getting bolder, You-Know-Who is on the prowl…"

Remus' mouth twitched into a crooked smile. "But you forget, I have Voldemort's…blessing. I'm his, as far as he knows."

Molly winced at the sound of Voldemort's name. "But that just puts you in more danger, simply because you're closer to him! He's paranoid, you know that, he'll be watching you, and what if he finds out that you're not on his side? Please, Remus, stay here until you've recovered from your transformation. What if you're attacked while you're still weak?"

He shook his head firmly. "I refuse to put you at risk. Lycanthropy is a painful affliction, and I don't want to be responsible if you contract it. I need a place away from humans." He stood. "I think I will leave now, so I'll have plenty of time to search for a suitable place. Thank you for all your kindness, Molly."

Molly opened her mouth argumentatively. He braced himself, and was surprised when her expression softened, and she simply replied, "You're more than welcome. My shift here ends in a few days, but I can still say with confidence that Grimmauld Place will always be a shelter should you need it. Good luck."

Remus smiled and went upstairs to gather his things. In his room, he came across the nearly empty bottle of potion from the night before. He hesitated, and then drank the third that was left, wondering if it would have any effect at all. Quickly, he changed into Muggle garb, shrank his suitcases as usual, and tucked them away into his pockets. Then he strode down the steps, across the entrance hall, and out the door before Molly could come out and say goodbye.

He had barely gone five paces when a heady, familiar scent suddenly reached his nose, carried to him on the breeze. His grey eyes widened slightly, though he was careful not to falter. Voldemort's messenger. Casually, he glanced around, allowing his gaze to skim across the many faces on the street. On the opposite side, he caught a flicker of blond. He reached the end of the block and crossed the street, where he immediately incorporated himself into the crowd. He looked down the street for the glimmer of blond hair, and saw, to his satisfaction, that the messenger—the _spy_—had lost sight of his quarry.

Remus grinned wolfishly, carefully allowing the crowd to carry him down the street in its flow. As he came closer, he could both see and smell the agent's anxiety, which was growing slowly into a panic. The man was subtly flicking his head back and forth, skimming the groups of people as nonchalantly as Remus had only seconds ago.

Remus unobtrusively stepped out of the stream of people into a small overhang that led to the entrance of a tiny store. The spy was roughly five feet ahead and to the right of Remus, standing near the curb and pretending to smoke. The stench of the cigarette was pungently unwelcome to his nose, especially when mixed with the other man's scent. He slipped from his temporary hiding spot and seized the Death Eater's arm, forcibly steering the other man away. His already predatory smile grew more so as the spy visibly jumped, fright and surprise flooding his scent.

The agent recognized Remus in a second, and tried to pull out of his grasp, but Remus was stronger by far. The Death Eater, realizing that he had underestimated his quarry, allowed himself to be led away.

"Hello, comrade," the blond said lightly, though his scent, thick with anxiety, which smelled faintly of citrus and bitter tea leaves, belied his casual tone.

"Quiet," Remus growled. His captive fell silent immediately.

Remus guided him down several small alleyways and side streets, purposely trying to confuse the Death Eater as well as lose any others that might be tailing them. When he had deemed it safe and the blond thoroughly bewildered, he halted, throwing his captive into a brick wall.

The blond opened his mouth to say something, but Remus cut him off. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"

"I'm supposed to give you a message," the courier replied, rubbing the arm that Remus had been holding. He blinked. _Liar's sign_, Remus thought grimly, smelling the falsehood—it was a raw, penetrating stench, like smoke and blood.

"Don't lie to me!" he barked, shoving the blond back against the wall, using his forearm to apply pressure to his captive's airway. The agent scrabbled against him desperately, trying to free himself, but stopped when he realized that he was making things worse. Remus narrowed his eyes, staring at his prisoner. "Spy," he hissed.

The Death Eater swallowed nervously. "No, I was sent to tell you—" He choked as Remus put more pressure on his throat, disabling speech.

"Never," he growled, so quietly as to be nearly inaudible, "let me catch you following me again. I know the Dark Lord is just trying to secure his own safety, and I don't blame him for that. But, I like to feel secure myself, and that won't happen if I have _spies_ tailing me." He laughed, knowing that the Death Eater thought he was insane—Remus could see it in his eyes and face—and went on, "You can tell the Dark Lord about our meeting, and if he has a problem with me, I'll be glad to speak with him." Remus released his prisoner. The wolf within was baying wildly, and for a moment he lost control, mind blinking out for a fraction of a second.

When Remus came back to himself, his first thought was, _Oh, no. What did I do? _He lost hold of the wolf every once in a while, and whenever it happened he also lost conscious thought and memory. He looked around wildly and saw Voldemort's spy lying crumpled on the ground. As he watched, the blond man groaned and looked up at him, waves of fear rolling from his frame, the scent clogging Remus' head and agitating the wolf even more. The left side of his face was red and already beginning to show bruising, and Remus knew immediately that he must have struck him.

He fought to keep the sorrow and compassion from his face as he watched the man on the ground. The spy blinked several times, scrambled to his feet, and ran. Remus had to consciously keep himself from giving chase, from hunting the Death Eater. Once the man's footsteps had echoed away, Remus sighed and turned the other direction, setting off on his second search in the past two days.


	11. A Report

Author's note: Let's try something else...Random break from Remus' point of view. Hope no one minds.

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**_Chapter Eleven: A Report_**

Voldemort's eyes glinted crimson in the firelight, unreadable as he contemplated the war. A soft knock on the door of his office reached his ears, and he turned as one of his Death Eaters, Trace Parker, entered. His blond hair was disheveled, his clear blue eyes were clouded with pain and frenzy, and he was panting ever so slightly. He was in Muggle clothing, Voldemort noted, and it was streaked with sweat and dirt, as though he had fallen. A huge purplish bruise marred the left side of his face, arcing from his jaw to his eye, and his neck was also similarly marked.

Voldemort waited.

Parker, regaining a sense of propriety, threw himself at his master's feet. "My lord…" he began, but his voice faltered.

Elegantly, Voldemort replied, "What happened to you, Parker? Rise to your knees and look at me as you speak."

The blond man obeyed, glancing up at the Dark Lord's face. Quickly, he dropped his eyes, however, obviously too frightened to maintain eye contact. "My lord, you sent me to spy on the werewolf, Lupin. He's in London—"

"And yet you are not. Do you see how this might be a problem?" Voldemort interrupted, voice silky.

Parker swallowed nervously. "I did as you instructed, my lord. The first night, he stayed in an abandoned Muggle home. Shortly after one in the morning, he came out looking distinctly disturbed by something. I checked the house—he killed a Muggle."

"And why does this matter to me?"

"Well, then I followed him across London. He stopped at…eleven Grimmauld Place. He stayed overnight, and then came out today. He found me…saw me…something. He knew I was spying on him. He knows all the side streets, all the tucked away alleys—he led me through a maze, my lord, and I did not even really know where we were. He nearly choked me for spying on him and he said…he said to tell you that he understands why you sent me, but that he needs his security too. And he told me that if you have a problem with that, you should summon him, my lord, and you can discuss it with him. He's insane, my lord, let me caution you."

Voldemort's lips were curved in a very faint smile. "I see. And I suppose he gave you those injuries for your trouble?" Trembling, not daring to so much as glance at his master, Parker nodded miserably. Voldemort's smile became more pronounced. "Look at me, Parker," he commanded. Shaking even more, Parker looked up into the Dark Lord's face. Voldemort caught his eyes and held them, probing the Death Eater's mind for the memory of the assault. He watched from Parker's point of view as Lupin held him against a brick wall, cutting off his air. The werewolf was deadly calm and composed as he released Parker. Lupin had half turned away when something about him suddenly changed. His face, or his eyes, perhaps, took on a different quality, almost as if Lupin had become someone else. The werewolf abruptly spun, moving too fast for Parker to process, and struck him across the face with the back of his hand. Voldemort could sense Parker's pain at the blow, and he fell to the ground. When the Death Eater looked back up at Lupin, the werewolf had changed again. He was himself once more, staring down at Parker dispassionately, face inscrutable.

Voldemort released the memory as Parker began to climb back to his feet and run away.

He broke eye contact with the Death Eater, who promptly fell to the floor, gasping and cradling his head. Legilimency did not have to be a painful process, but Voldemort felt that it was a suitable reminder of his power. Sometimes his Death Eaters could be…overzealous.

"You were foolish to run from him," Voldemort murmured pensively.

On the ground, Parker gave a low groan. Voldemort gazed down at him.

"You may go, now. Find Lupin once more and tell him to meet me at St. Joseph's again. Tomorrow," Voldemort said. Parker climbed slowly to his feet, bowed deeply, and staggered from Voldemort's office. The door shut firmly behind him as Voldemort began to laugh, gleeful.


	12. Transformation

**_Chapter Twelve: Transformation_**

Night. Remus paced, his restless feet carrying him around and around the abandoned warehouse that he had found for himself. He checked the door for the sixth time to make absolutely certain that it was bolted shut securely. If his potion failed him, he wanted a guarantee that he would be prevented from roaming the streets in his wolf-form. The door was shut and locked in such a way that the wolf within him could not unbolt it; reassured momentarily, he strode back across the warehouse. A window, covered with bars and located near the ceiling, showed a patch of jagged black sky and distant starlight. The moon had not risen to its full height yet, but Remus needed no window to know that. The wolf within him was tense, dancing around the edges of his mind. His spine had begun to tingle ever so slightly, a warning sign that meant that transformation would commence soon.

Remus looked around. He had broken into a different warehouse and placed his belongings inside, in an out of the way corner so that they would not be compromised by his wolf-form if the Wolfsbane potion did not work. _Nothing worse than coming off a transformation and realizing you've unknowingly destroyed everything you own_, he thought, smiling ruefully. He had also dragged an old, discarded chair into the room—it would be something to gnaw on other than his own limbs. Finally, he had changed into some of his most worn robes, ones that he did not care much about, ones that could be ruined. Usually he was careful to take his clothing off immediately prior to transformation, but he obviously could not run around London without clothes on.

The thought of how some of the higher-maintenance Londoners would react to such a thing made him laugh quietly, but the laugh quickly changed to a groan of pain as he doubled over, twitching slightly. The hair on the back of his neck bristled, and goosebumps rippled across his skin. _Almost time_, he thought, grey eyes fixed on the grey stars and the patch of blackness visible through the window.

A torrent of pain ripped through his body and he had to swallow a howl of agony. He staggered and fell to the ground, panting, forcibly reminded of the transformations of the past, before he had been aware of the Wolfsbane potion. The pain then had always been worse than transformations recently.

He felt his limbs stiffen, and he knew that the change would begin in moments. Fur began to prick its way through his skin, and in a moment of sheer, mind-numbing anguish, his knee joints popped loudly and reversed direction. Through the hazy mess that was left of his thoughts, Remus longed for the days when he blacked out during his transformations—a sort of natural defense that his body, as a child, had developed against the pain.

As the change came faster, triggered by the fur, he emptied his mind—something he had learned from meditation, which he had taken up around the age of twenty to help himself manage transformations. As he reached his final wolf-form, his consciousness suddenly wavered, winking out for just a moment. Then he regained thought as, apparently, the Wolfsbane potion did its work.

It was a weak control, however, Remus noticed almost immediately. The presence of the wolf within his mind was stronger than ever as it stalked through his thoughts, constantly attempting to assert itself and push away his human rationality. It was a continuous struggle between the wolf's lust for starlight and hunting, and the human's desire for what little peace could be maintained while trapped in wolf-form.

A sudden _crack_ caused Remus to scramble to his paws in surprise, taking on a defensive posture: head, ears, and tail raised, teeth bared in a silent snarl, fur puffed out to make himself seem larger than he truly was. The wolf within bayed triumphantly and tried to seize control while he was distracted, but Remus fought back, finally emerging the victor. He focused on the source of the noise.

A bewildered-looking wizard, the blond Death Eater that had been spying on him earlier, had just Apparated into the middle of the abandoned warehouse. He blinked several times, trying to get his bearings, and then spotted Remus near the corner. His blue eyes widened impossibly and he went incredibly pale. He pulled out his wand and shouted, "_Stupefy_!"

The spell hit Remus square in the snout in a blaze of red. He had a fleeting second to think tiredly, _Idiot_, before the enraged wolf within went completely berserk.


	13. Three O'Clock It Is, Then

Author's note: Oh wow, I just got a bunch of reviews from Marauder3Moony. That's awesome, I really appreciate it. I'm glad you like it so far...I'm going to attempt to answer a few of your questions, at least those that I can at the moment. Let's see...yes, Voldemort believes Remus, because as far as he knows, Remus has been truthful (he managed all half-truths). And yes, I meant that Remus can't have chocolate ever. It sucks, but I think that after a while of not being able to have it, you'd grow accustomed to it and not miss it so much. About Remus wanting to tear Mrs. Browning's throat out, that was more the wolf's reaction, not Remus'. I've always pictured an internal struggle between the wolf nature and the human nature. And yes, Voldemort knew it was full moon, but that's all I'll say for now.

Ooh, and I got some reviews from Rae Roberts! Woo hoo...you're still my favorite person. (grin)

Anyway. Thanks to both of you. Now, go read.

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**_Chapter Thirteen: Three O'Clock It Is, Then_**

Remus awoke, head throbbing horribly—he felt as though he had been beaten all over with a sledgehammer. He let out a low, growling groan and rolled onto his back, keeping his eyes closed, not at all certain that he would react well to the brightness of the morning sunlight.

As he moved, an odd coppery scent weaved its way through the air around him. He coughed and tried to swallow, to find that the same coppery tang was coating his tongue and throat. Confused, he tried to figure out what it could be. Gradually, the memory of such a smell and taste filtered into his hazy thoughts, and he opened his eyes, horrified.

Remus had no clothes on; he had expected that. What he had hoped would not be there were the streaks of crimson.

He closed his eyes, willed the blood away, and opened them once more. It was still there. He slowly raised a hand and inspected his fingernails. There was a rusty, almost flaky substance underneath them: dried blood. _Oh, Sweet Moon_, he thought. He turned his head to the right. The door was securely bolted with no signs at having been breached by anyone, werewolf or human. _Then how…?_

Remus turned his head to the left, very slowly, dreading what he might see. His eyes skimmed across the floor, and he spied, in the corner, a lump of darkness. Then the sunlight glimmered into the warehouse, lancing off of something shiny. He focused on the glare. His mind came to a halt as he grappled with the reality of what he was seeing.

It was a watch. Strapped to a hand. A hand attached to an arm. An arm not attached to a shoulder.

He rolled over just in time to be sick all over the floor beside him. He wiped the bile from his mouth and spat, attempting to rid his mouth of the coppery tang that he could still taste. "Oh, Sweet Moon," he whispered. "Oh, damn."

When his stomach had stopped lurching, he slowly rose to a sitting position, carefully avoiding looking at the hand lying on the floor only five feet away. Instead, he tried to locate the set of clothing he had brought with him. It was lying where he had placed it, in a dusty corner. He crawled over to it and picked up his wand.

"_Scourgify_." His voice rasped through his throat painfully, more hoarse than usual. The bloodstains splashed across his body began to disappear, little by little. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the last of it had been cleaned off.

He pulled on his clothing, taking frequent breaks to regain what little energy he had. Then he slumped in the corner, trying to ignore the scent of blood wafting at him from across the room. It would not leave him alone, however. Shaking, he performed the Bubble-head Charm, gratefully inhaling the fresh air. Thoroughly exhausted, he fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

When Remus woke again, it was noon. His head still ached dully, although he felt slightly better for having slept. He dispelled his Bubble-head Charm, and the coppery smell rushed back in at him. He ignored it and reached into his pocket, taking out a tiny bottle. "_Engorgio_," he muttered. The bottle began to grow rapidly, until it was roughly the size of his forearm. He smiled tiredly at the label, where a lovely brunette was waving up at him, steam pouring from her ears, underneath a large purple banner that read _PEPPER-UP POTION_. He uncapped it and took a huge swig. Instantly, he felt more like maybe, just maybe, he would be able to function correctly.

Another mouthful got him to his feet, where he swayed gently for a moment. Bracing himself against the wall, he staggered forward, helplessly feeling like a drunkard. He stopped near the severed arm, shuddered involuntarily, and pointed his wand at it. "_Incendio_," he murmured. The limb instantly went up in flames, slowly collapsing into ash. The fire went out.

Remus started forward again, walking toward the corner that housed the unmoving lump. As he approached, the tang of blood grew stronger. He grimaced as the figure became visible. It was the blond Death Eater, the courier, the spy. His body was in terrible shape, mauled by the fangs of a werewolf. His broken wand lay next to his feet.

"What were you playing at, courier?" he muttered as he gazed at the mangled body. "You should have known better than to tangle with a werewolf during full moon. Idiot," he spat, "what were you playing at!" He swore several times, then clenched his jaw. He dragged his eyes away from the wide blue ones of his victim, which were staring and clouded with pain and fear and bewilderment. He pointed his wand at the body, and muttered the spell that created fire. As the flames devoured his victim, Remus whispered, "I'm sorry."

His silent mourning was interrupted by the sound of wings. An owl swooped down to the bar-covered window, and when it found its way blocked, dropped a piece of parchment. The paper fluttered to the ground as the owl flew away; whoever had sent it hadn't expected an answer, obviously. Remus took a step forward to retrieve it, and lurched dangerously. He steadied himself, gulped several mouthfuls of Pepper-up Potion, and allowed the ground to stop spinning before he tried to walk again.

The parchment was an unadorned, slightly crinkled scrap with a simple message:

_St. Joseph's. Three o'clock._

It was unsigned, but Remus needed no signature to know who had sent it. He glanced at the ash that had been the blond spy's body, eyebrows raised slightly. _Three o'clock it is,_ he thought grimly.


	14. To Bond, to Beckon, to Break

Author's note: Thanky to Marauder3Moony, for kindly reviewing the previous chapter. Poor Remus, indeed...

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**_Chapter Fourteen: To Bond, to Beckon, to Break_**

Remus perched on the edge of the third pew from the back on the left side of the aisle in St. Joseph's. It was five minutes to three, and he was resting before his meeting with the Dark Lord, still amazed that he had managed to get to the church in his current state. It had taken nearly the whole bottle of Pepper-up Potion, several charms to disguise the steam sprouting from his ears, and almost two hours of shaky walking, frequently interrupted with long breaks. The church housed more people today than it had previously, and luckily the priest was too preoccupied hearing confessions to notice that his strange guest had returned—Remus was not in the mood to answer any questions.

At three o'clock, Remus stood and walked slowly down the aisle, carefully controlling his gait so that it would not seem as though he were drunk. He turned and entered the confessional farthest to the right. Instantly, he knew that something was wrong. He could not smell Voldemort's scent; it was a different priest.

"_Obliviate_," he muttered, pointing his wand at the priest behind the curtain. He walked out of the booth and back into the church. No one appeared to have noticed that his presumed confession had taken less than thirty seconds. He strode up the aisle, falsely confident, exiting the church as quickly as his body would allow. Uncertain of what to do next—all he knew was that he should stay in the area around the church to be contacted—he crossed the street and sat down on a bench.

"This spot taken?" a voice asked a few moments later. Remus looked up and shook his head. A slight, fragile-looking woman with waves of auburn hair and wide gold-green eyes sat next to him. Casually, she crossed her legs and put a newspaper on the bench between them, holding a magazine in her hands, which she promptly began to read. Looking down at the newspaper disinterestedly, Remus saw a patch of off-white parchment sticking out from underneath the pile. He could just see four letters written on it: L-U-P-I. He glanced at the woman; she was absorbed in her reading.

_Surely, she can't be a Death Eater…_

Offhandedly, Remus asked, "Mind if I check the stocks?" The woman's mouth twitched ever so slightly, and he could see a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

"Sure," she murmured, still apparently engrossed in her magazine. Remus picked up the business section of the paper and the fragment of parchment. He opened the news to the page that contained the stocks, carefully shifting it so that he could read the note.

_Lupin—  
__Five blocks to the charter school. Fifteen minutes._

Remus fought the urge to bare his teeth in annoyance. He had been waiting for five minutes, he calculated, which gave him less than ten to get to the school. He put the newspaper down with a quiet word of thanks and stood. Voldemort had to know the state Remus was in. _He's playing with me_, Remus thought. _But he won't beat me_, he added silently, turning into an alleyway that he knew was a shortcut.

He was nearly halfway to the charter school when he picked up the sound of footsteps. Remus pricked his ears, carefully silencing his own tread. Several people were converging on him from all directions, including above him, on rooftops and fire escapes. He sniffed at the wind, sorting through the various aromas of the alleyway. They were not humans; they were wizards. And they were setting a trap for him, a trap that he had to allow to be sprung—ironically, for his own safety.

At first he spied only one person, masked, shrouded in black, watching him inconspicuously from a fire escape. Then more appeared, forming a ragged circle around him as though it were an expected routine. He glanced around the circle, gazing at each one. He had originally hoped to glimpse a face or some defining feature, but all he could see were narrowed eyes leering at him from behind the slits of the Death Eaters' masks; beyond that, he was only able to determine each person's sex and age based on their individual scents.

A ripple went through the circle, a heavy metallic aroma assaulted Remus' nose, and suddenly Voldemort arrived. Remus immediately fell to his knees and bowed his head, hating every moment that his neck was exposed to the killer that stood above him. He sensed Voldemort's gaze upon him, intense and probing. Then the Dark Lord's feet moved as he began to pace around the circle of Death Eaters, staring into the masked faces sneeringly.

"My followers," he announced, so that everyone could hear. "I am certain that many of you know the man who kneels before me—Remus Lupin. You are all well aware that he was part of the opposition in the first war. And yet here he is," he continued coldly and almost merrily. "His so-called allies have abandoned him, and now he has turned to us. I have tested him already, and he has shown his worth by aiding me in the execution of the traitor Trace Parker."

Remus' stomach lurched and his vision blurred as a memory came rushing back.

_"Stupefy!" A flash of red light hit him in the snout. A voice in his head, that hated, familiar voice that prevented him from roaming under the starlight, from Hunting, muttered something. Snarling, he shoved the voice away and leapt at the human that dared enter his territory without permission. Wide blue eyes and a glimmer of blond hair caught his attention for just a moment, and then he was biting, tearing—_

The memory abruptly cut off, gone as quickly as it had come. Remus clenched his jaw, forcing his body to stop shaking, and swallowed hard, imagining the tang of blood on his tongue. He risked a glance at Voldemort, who was still addressing his followers—no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual.

"—first werewolf to come to our side, and he has promised to recruit others of his kind," Voldemort was saying. He turned to the man kneeling in the center of the rough circle. "Look up, Remus," he commanded. Oddly compelled to obey, half of him insisting that he defy the compulsion, he did as Voldemort ordered.

The Dark Lord's scarlet eyes seared into Remus'. He felt the faint beginnings of a headache, as though his mind were being tugged at the edges. _Legilimency_, he realized. _Or at least an attempt. Someone didn't do his research on werewolves._ He stifled a humorless laugh; it was not a very widely known fact that werewolves were able to resist Legilimens—a dual nature was stronger than a singular mind, after all—but the fact _could_ be found. As the tugging on his mind grew more insistent, Remus felt the wolf within stir. Though it was subdued, it managed to raise its head and snarl menacingly at the intruder. For once, Remus joined the wolf, unintentionally mimicking its demeanor in his thoughts, picturing himself as an alpha wolf asserting his dominance. Voldemort, for a fraction of a second, appeared taken aback. Then Remus realized that he was staring too defiantly at the Dark Lord and he looked down again, not wanting to seem overly bold.

Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he turned back to his Death Eaters. Remus could smell their restlessness. They had watched the silent struggle between their master and the newest convert motionlessly, and Remus was unable to tell if they knew how it had ended, or if they even cared.

"Now we shall accept Remus into our ranks with the final rite," Voldemort declared, a challenge in his voice. Remus kept his eyes on the ground as the Dark Lord drew closer, wondering what was about to happen to him. Voldemort halted in front of him. "Your left arm," he hissed, voice low and sinister. Remus closed his eyes, resigned, knowing what was to come. He raised his arm as commanded.

Voldemort's fingers were icy and surprisingly strong. He pushed Remus' sleeve back roughly, and then he drew a small, wicked-looking dagger.

"Every Death Eater must be willing to shed his blood for the cause," he stated. "Are you willing, Remus Lupin?"

Remus glanced up into the Dark Lord's scarlet eyes, casting about for a half-truth. "I am," he replied. "I will fight." _You_, he finished silently.

"So be it," Voldemort said, and plunged the knife into the skin at the crook of Remus' elbow. Several drops of blood dripped onto the ground near Remus' left knee, and his vision wavered as the familiar tang reached his nose. He pushed back another flash of memory with an immense effort, using the pain of the blade to keep his mind's eye clear.

Voldemort drew the knife from Remus' arm. Then he pricked his own finger quickly and sheathed the blade still bloody. He placed his wounded finger on the gash on Remus' arm, and Remus felt an almost electrical shock as their blood mingled.

"Blood to bond, blood to beckon, and blood to break," Voldemort intoned quietly. The syllables seemed somehow more than just words; they were redolent with an ancient, unknown magic. He took his finger off the wound, whispered a healing spell, and then traced a pattern on Remus' arm with the blood that remained on his fingertip. His eyes blazed and a torrent of magic surged through the blood. Remus' eyes narrowed as his arm began to throb, but he did not allow himself to make a sound or otherwise move—the hurt could not compare to that of his transformations, and he refused to give Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Then it was over. Voldemort drew away, looking oddly disappointed and wary. Without any manner of goodbye, he Disapparated with a loud _crack_. His Death Eaters shifted in surprise at his abrupt departure, waited a minute to ascertain that he was truly gone, and then cautiously began to Disapparate.

Remus remained where he was, staring at his left forearm, which was now marred by a small black Dark Mark at the crook of his elbow.

"He didn't scream," a hushed voice muttered behind him. Its owner seemed slightly awed. Remus blinked, staying motionless. The Death Eaters discussing him did not appear to realize that he could hear their whispered conversation.

"He didn't react at all," another voice murmured fearfully. "The Dark Lord will not be happy about it."

"You never know," a third person chimed in quietly. "Bellatrix Lestrange—" the voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible, as though its owner were afraid to speak the name too loudly "—was the only other one who didn't scream either, and look where she is now."

"He's one of them, though—a werewolf, you know. The Dark Lord may favor them during the battle, but when it comes down to it, they're all just half-breeds," the first voice protested. "They'll never be allowed to climb the ranks."

"No, I suppose not. Full moon was last night, wasn't it? No wonder he looks like hell," the third person whispered. Then the conversation turned to other matters, and finally the three bid each other farewell. There were three successive _cracks_ as they Disapparated.

Remus was alone; he could sense it. He sighed, trying to rid himself of the faint buzzing within his ears. _I've overreached myself again, too soon after transformation_, he thought ruefully. He swayed very gently where he was, still kneeling in the middle of the alleyway. Then his vision distorted and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.


	15. Fire Eyes

Author's note: Ah, so I'm back once again. Sorry for the hiatus; I was running low on ideas and time. Thanks to Sophie and Marauder3Moony for their lovely reviews...I appreciate it, guys.

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**_Chapter Fifteen: Fire Eyes_**

The Death Eater stationed outside of Voldemort's study shifted uneasily. The Dark Lord had just returned from a summoning, his cold scarlet eyes brooding and almost—

The Death Eater clamped down on the thought, stiffening slightly. The Dark Lord was afraid of nothing. He was an idiot for having even considered it. _What if he picks it up next time he conducts a search?_ the man worried, frowning. He shuddered with dread. On the last day of each month, Voldemort summoned his entire army, taking each Death Eater into his office individually and thoroughly probing their minds for treasonous thoughts or memories of traitorous actions. Some emerged from the encounter with splintered minds; others simply did not come out at all.

It was merely another reminder of the great and terrible power that their master wielded, another reminder that none of them really mattered when it came down to it. Well, none except perhaps—

_No._ The Death Eater banished that line of contemplation as well. He would—he must—think of trivial matters. Or, even better, he would think of nothing at all. One very quickly learned to blank his mind in the presence of the Dark Lord.

"Blair." Voldemort's voice slid into the man's consciousness from behind the heavy door of the study, slippery and ominous as a snake. "Come in for a moment."

Blair's breath caught in his throat. _He knows. Oh, no, he heard—he sensed…somehow…_

Then he shook his head and took a deep breath, steadying himself. No. His master simply wanted a word with him, as he did occasionally. Sometimes he asked a question; sometimes he wanted an opinion on his next move in the war. Blair was honored that the Dark Lord held him in such high regard.

He tugged open the door and stepped carefully inside. "My Lord?" he murmured softly. Voldemort was facing the fire, gazing into its dancing, blazing flames without actually seeing them.

"Blair," the Dark wizard said quietly, "am I wise to accept werewolves into my forces?" He half-turned to watch his follower, gauging his reaction.

Blair humbly kept his eyes on the floor, concealing his surprise. He did not dare accuse someone as ingenious as the Dark Lord of something so…_plebeian_…as foolishness. "It will bolster the army, my lord," he explained to the rich, deep green carpet. "It was a brilliant idea to enlist their help. They are bitter, and their power will intimidate the opposition. They may not be numerous, but they have already unwittingly been conditioned to follow you, my lord. Obviously they are simply half-breeds, almost as bad as Mudbloods, but there are ways to dispose of them once you have conquered." Voldemort had turned back to the fire and was nodding meditatively. Heartened by his master's agreement, he cautiously ventured, "And the newest follower…Lupin. You have spoken highly of him so far…"

Blair, peering at the Dark Lord from beneath his eyelashes, allowed his next words to die on his lips as his master suddenly whirled about. Voldemort stalked toward him, his crimson eyes snapping with reflected flame—or was this fire entirely independent of the one crackling on the hearth? Blair forcibly controlled a wave of tremors that rolled lazily across his body, flinching away from the searing rage in his master's eyes. He had gone too far, he knew. Sweat began to form along his hairline as Voldemort approached.

"You are too bold," the Dark Lord whispered, his cold, clipped voice in sharp contrast to the furious heat in his bearing. He halted a few yards from his cringing follower, who had fallen to his knees in futile supplication. The Dark wizard smirked with something very close to pleasure, raising his wand. "_Crucio!_" he shouted.

Blair vaguely felt himself hit the floor, overwhelmed by sheer, indescribable agony. Someone was yelling, begging for mercy—and the pain deepened threefold, fivefold, tenfold, multiplying and magnifying as seeming eons passed. Blair thought he could feel his body shredding to pieces under the pressure of the curse.

Several paces away, the Dark Lord grinned, eyes fiery with sadistic delight. He pumped more of his power into the spell, more of his doubt and fear and hatred, watching his follower writhe on the ground in anguish, the man's pleading for forgiveness punctuated with screams that gradually rose in intensity.

Abruptly, Voldemort raised his wand. Over Blair's panting, he spoke softly, voice silky and jaded. "Consider yourself chastened. Remove yourself from my sight."

Unconsciously shedding tears, emitting small whimpers, the man dragged himself to the door and left the office.

"I spoke highly of Lupin once, that's true," Voldemort mused in the silence that followed. He turned once again to stare into the fire. "But now, he seems much more volatile than I originally intended. More of a liability, costly rather than valuable…something to be dealt with." His eyes reflected the firelight without absorbing any of the flames' jovial warmth as he pondered the predicament that was Remus Lupin.


	16. The First of the List

**_Chapter Sixteen: The First of the List_**

Remus walked along the street as quickly as his beaten body would allow. He leaned heavily on the strength of the wolf; though greatly diminished now that the full moon had come and gone, it was enough to keep him up and moving forward. It was risky, he knew. His guard was down, the wolf was unpredictable, and any second now it could easily take control. But it seemed content for the moment, quiet, sated by last night's feast.

Remus shuddered, partly from his fragmented memories, partly due to the cold night air. His uncanny sense of time that had been instilled in him after he had been bitten told him that it was 9:43 PM.

As he strode along, he debated with himself. He appeared to passerby an energetic man with a definite destination in mind, but truthfully he was dead tired, with no idea where he was going, nor where he would spend the night. He only knew that he needed a place soon—somewhere with warmth and an opportunity for a long, uninterrupted sleep. Digging his hands into his pockets to ward away the cold, he felt paper crumple and bend beneath his fingers. Puzzled, he drew it out and unfolded it.

Remus grimaced. It was the list of potential new recruits that Voldemort had given him. _Have to start soon_, he realized. He could sense that the Dark Lord had felt threatened by his lack of emotion at the ceremony that afternoon. Unconsciously, he rubbed the crook of his left elbow. _Might as well begin my search now_. _Restore Voldemort's confidence in me._

He peered at the first name on the paper. _Ulryk Weber. 5 Thorne Road._ Remus raised an eyebrow. He had heard of this Weber. He was a fairly well known scientist researching lycanthropy, and apparently making leaps and bounds. Remus had not known that the man was himself a lycanthrope, however. _Dirty little secret, I suppose. Can't make progress if you're known as taboo_, he mused, glancing at a street sign to get his bearings. Then he turned and set off down a side-street toward Weber's home.

The house in question was tiny and off-white. It was unadorned, with a short driveway, a squat white picket fence, and a green door. Remus hesitated at the gate, hackles rising uneasily. Ulryk's scent was everywhere, and he couldn't help but feel like a trespasser on the other werewolf's territory. He would have preferred to meet Weber on neutral ground. Since that was impossible, however, he would have to appear small and unimposing, not as a threat or challenger.

He paced up to the front door, paused, and then knocked. He heard Weber jump, stand up, and make his way to the entrance. The footsteps halted on the other side of the threshold, and Remus knew that the other man had caught his scent. The door opened a crack.

"What do you want?" Weber's voice rasped. He looked at his unexpected visitor suspiciously, his head raised high, his eyes narrowed, subconsciously taking on a dominant posture.

"May I come in, please?" Remus spoke softly. He tilted his chin downward slightly, so that his head was angled at a compliant slant. He made eye contact briefly and carefully, and then cast his sight at the ground. He could sense that Weber had relaxed a bit. The door opened a bit wider, and Weber stood to one side.

"Come on, then," he said.

Remus stepped inside unassumingly and replied, "Thank you." He surreptitiously snuck a glance at the other man as he shut the door. Ulryk Weber was a large man, over six feet and well muscled. His features were prominent, particularly his nose, and his blonde hair was splashed with white. His eyes were a striking shade of brown so pale that Remus could only accurately describe them as beige. Remus dropped his gaze as Weber turned to face him.

There was a moment of silence, and then: "You can look at me. I can tell you're not after trouble."

Remus gave a small smile and said, "I was hoping you'd realize that."

"So who exactly are you? Why are you here at ten o'clock at night?"

"My name is Remus Lupin. I'm…a courier." Remus' smile gained a certain ironic edge.

"Courier? Who sent you?"

Remus hesitated. His answer was volatile. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Weber moved so quickly that Remus almost did not see him. As it was, he barely ducked the punch thrown at his head. The other werewolf howled with rage and bodily tackled him. Remus braced himself for the impact but made no effort to dodge, although he easily could have. It took only a moment of furious pummeling on Weber's part before Weber realized that his victim was not fighting back, simply blocking the worst of the blows. He stopped hitting Remus, sitting up and lightly placing a knee on his prostrate quarry to keep him from moving.

Remus gazed at the other werewolf calmly. "I take it, then, that you are not interested in joining Voldemort."

Weber winced at the name. "Never," he spat vehemently.

Remus smiled wanly. "Good. Then you might be well-advised to go into hiding."

"Hiding?" Weber's demeanor was defiant. "I won't hide from him, like a scared pup!"

"Well, actually, I should say that you would be well-advised to go into hiding after I kill you," Remus stated. Weber's eyes narrowed. Remus could smell his confusion. "You're on Voldemort's list of potential recruits," he explained before the other man could resume his punching. "You said no, therefore I am supposed to kill you. And dead men can't walk around in their usual routines."

Weber's pale gaze gained clarity as he grasped what Remus was getting at. "I see," he rasped.

"But before we go into all this killing and hiding business," Remus said, amazed by his own daring, "may I ask you whether I might be able to borrow a room, or a couch, or something for the night? I've hardly slept since full moon ended."

Beige eyes softened noticeably; Weber knew how he must feel. He stood and helped Remus to his feet. "I have an extra room upstairs that you can use." Remus realized that Weber was still slightly distrustful, and he felt even more gratitude toward the man.

"Thank you," he said emphatically. Weber nodded and led him up the stairs.

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Author's note:Starting to get up there in chapters. Craziness! Heh...keep reading, me hearties, please. Reviews are the joy of...um...well, they're just really nice. 


	17. A Discussion in the Hallway

Author's note: Oh my, I haven't done anything on Fan Fiction or this story for so long. I'm sorry to any readers who may have been disappointed. Fair warning, this may be the beginning of another wait, because I have so much work this year that sometimes I hardly have time to breathe, let alone write. Hopefully it won't be so ridiculously and outrageously long.

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**_Chapter Seventeen: A Discussion in the Hallway_**

Remus woke slowly to the uncertain half-light of either dawn or twilight. He sat up, momentarily disoriented by his surroundings. Then memory flooded his mind: Ulryk Weber. Voldemort. The Dark Mark. Shrouded figures circling him, an alleyway filled with frightened whispers. Full moon.

He sighed, peering out his window. The sun was sinking in the west; his internal clock told him that it was 6:01 PM. For an instant, he stretched his sleep-stiffened limbs, luxuriating in the feeling of vigor that his rest had instilled in him. Then he climbed to his feet, searching for his clothing, which he had had just enough energy to shed before collapsing into bed the previous night—or the night before last? He was not certain. Either way, it did not matter: the garments had mysteriously disappeared, along with, he realized with a start, his suitcases.

Remus stood in the middle of the room, completely exposed, and had to stifle a burst of laughter. Oh, Weber was clever. Speaking of his host…

He could hear the soft, steady pulse of someone's blood outside his door. Cautiously, making enough to noise to guarantee that the person outside would hear him coming, Remus strode to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out into the hallway.

Weber sat in a cushioned chair on the opposite side of the hall, facing Remus' room. A gun with a perforated cylinder—a silencer—attached to its barrel lay on his lap.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you that this is loaded with silver bullets," Weber murmured. He was sitting in partial darkness; before Remus' eyes adjusted to the shadows, all he could distinguish of the man were his beige eyes, shining palely in the gloaming.

"No, you don't," replied Remus, just as quietly. He could smell the metal from his spot behind the door. It set his nerves jangling, which, he supposed, was the reason why Weber was wielding the gun rather than his wand. After a moment of silence, Remus queried politely, "May I please have my clothing back?"

Weber ignored his request, but Remus could detect a flicker of laughter behind his solemn expression. "I searched all of your belongings, Mr. Lupin—"

"Remus," he interrupted.

"Remus," Weber acceded with a slight nod. "You have no weapons beyond your wand, and I found nothing incriminating. But I still think I'd like a clearer explanation of what is going on than you've given me thus far."

Remus inspected his captor/host carefully. Voldemort had agents everywhere—was Weber merely a test? A spy? Is that why his name had been first on the list? But even if he was Voldemort's man, what could Remus do about it?

Weber waited patiently, seemingly understanding of Remus' doubt. Remus took a deep breath; he could sense no ill will or concealed purpose on the other man, just curiosity. Following the instincts that told him that Weber was trustworthy, Remus informed him, "I am a spy, Mr. Weber."

"We seem to be on a first-name basis at this point," Weber stated pointedly.

"Very well," Remus replied, smiling slightly.

"Who are you working for?"

"Have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"

Weber raised an eyebrow. "Who hasn't?"

"I am spying on Voldemort for the Order," Remus said.

"Yet you come under the orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Weber said questioningly.

"He is under the impression that I am one of his Death Eaters."

Weber studied the carpet beneath his feet, digesting this in silence. Then he glanced up at Remus, a subdued fear etched into his expression. "And I am on his list?" Remus nodded. "How did he find out?"

Remus knew Weber was referring to his lycanthropy. "He has sources everywhere, Ulryk. Or perhaps it was simply a lucky guess."

"If word gets out…" Weber sighed. Then he stood, picked a small parcel, and offered it to Remus, who recognized it as his clothing. "When you're decent," his host called over his shoulder as he walked away down the hall, "come downstairs. I want to show you something."


End file.
